IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY!-RWBY AU REWRITE
by alantao1
Summary: The end of the Great War in Europe came to a close, and with it came peace. Except for the 40 odd thousand British Tommies, who found themselves waking up on a strange foreign land where the moon was shattered, and monsters lurk around every corner. Watch them affect the history of Remnant. Rating might be subject to change later on.
1. Chapter 1

Beta'd by D. Fender and Gladsome

The guns stopped firing.

At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the guns of both side of the Western front fell silent.

The silence was eerie and yet, so beautiful, nobody dared to be the first to break the silence. Never before has the phrase "the silence is deafening" been more apt.

If one was to take a look out to No-Man's land, one would see the beautiful sight of fields of red poppies growing out of the muddy pockmarked French countryside.

A collective mental sigh of relief went through the many minds for surviving the meat grinder that was the Great War, yet was accompanied by a sadness for those who did not make it to see the end.

It was finally ov-

A great bright light which outshone the sun in the sky suddenly appeared all across the Western Front and became visible all over Europe. Sounds of startled cries and orders to receive enemy attack broke the silence of the Western Front.

The light disappeared just as sudden as it appeared, leaving many to wonder what just happened.

Runners on both sides carried messages back and fro to senior officers and command centres demanding explanations to what just happened and with orders to not to break the ceasefire.

A few men on both sides were disciplined for opening fire when the bright light appeared for risking breaking the peace, although miraculously no one was killed or injured during the short period of chaos.

It took hours later amid the chaos and confusion before anyone noticed that there were soldiers mysteriously missing from along the British sides of the Western front.

Ammunitions, weapons, fuel and food rations from British supply stores were later reported missing. The missing supplies were however later claimed by military officials to be the fault of clerical errors and were not that uncommon at all.

British military Top Brass hushed up the anomalies, uncharacteristically dismissed concerns over the missing soldiers by simply adding them to the list of the dead and sent letters to their next of kin of their passing.

Many years later, many people are still arguing about the Great Light Event. Scientists believed it to be a rare phenomenon called St Elmo's fire on a massive unprecedented scale whereas religious institutions all over the world claimed the Light was a sign of God sending his approval for mankind ending the War to End All Wars.

Whatever the reason, the Event would continue to linger in public consciousness for many years to come.

Men and women who last saw the missing persons were all interviewed in secret and they all told the same story. In all cases the soldiers were there one second and gone the next, apparently all happening at the same time as the Great Light event, leading to some uncomfortable conclusions made by the British Top Brass. Any documents written during the investigation were afterwards promptly locked away in some corner of some dusty government archives or shredded to pieces.

Those that were interviewed were afterwards convinced that it was in their best interest for their "continued well-being" to stay quiet on the matter when they were released back home, and any letter written back home about the missing soldiers were already picked up and destroyed.

To this day the case remains unsolved and hidden from public eyes.

If this is death, it really isn't that bad, Lieutenant Price decided.

A Lieutenant Thomas Price was floating in a timeless void of darkness and silence, both comforting in their own way, questioning his current situation.

He was never particularly religious, considering he only went to church because everyone else did, and the things he did and saw during the war? He was never going to be a devout Christian after that.

Is this death? Or am I dreaming?

How did I even die? Is this the end?

This can't possibly mean the end for me, right? So much to live for, and so much left to see.

Dark, angry thoughts raged in his mind against the damned Hun, the blasted politicians who got Britain in the mess in the first place and, most of all himself.

Who dies after winning the war?!

Seconds, minutes, and possibly hours of languishing in this timeless limbo, he started to calm down at last.

Bittersweet resignation to his fate of never seeing home again took over the Lieutenant. He did make it after all to the end.

And if this was death, it wasn't so bad, he decided, after all it could have been worse, it could have been hell.

No sooner he finished his thought, his whole world jerked, and he was plunged into a world of pain and noise.

"Sir, wake up!"

That voice sounded awfully familiar.

"Wake up!"

That voice also sounded urgent, and it was getting so peaceful as we-

"The Hun is here, sir!"

Wait...what?! Damn all the Hun to hell, even in the afterlife they were still causing trouble for him!

With a herculean effort, he groaned and opened his eyes to the sight of a vaguely familiar face, screwed up in worry as it hovered above him.

Private Harry Cooper nervously knelt over his superior officer, waiting for him to wake up.

Everything had gone to hell after that bright light.

He awoke to the sounds of breaking waves, finding himself lying down next to his rifle on a large sandy beach, looking up to the sight of a forget-me-not blue sky with the sun blazing as if it was a warm British summer afternoon.

Warm, sandy beaches, that was strange, wasn't he supposed to be in the middle of a muddy french countryside, in the middle of November no less?

Struggling, he pushed himself up and saw the beautiful clear watered sea to his left, tropical trees lining the seaside to his right, a scene that would not look out of place in a Robinson Crusoe novel if it were not for the many soldiers, lying unconscious on the miles long beach with their equipment and weapons strewn about.

Many wore the distinctive khaki colours of the British army uniform, with variations popping up here and there, several of which perhaps signified Commonwealth origins.

With groggy eyes and a still hazy mind, he picked up his rifle in a ready position and started to trudge whilst looking for a familiar face from his platoon or even his regiment.

His steps were slow and heavy, ever so mindful not to step on a soldier, Private Cooper doggedly walked forwards in the blistering sun and after what seemed like an age and a half, he found the familiar face of his platoon leader, his peaceful and serene visage looking upwards towards the cloudless sky.

Private Cooper felt a twinge of guilt for what he was about to do to his senior officer, but as the sounds of groans of waking men began, he knelt beside Lieutenant Price and shouted the best he could.

"WAKE UP SIR!"

After shouting at the Lieutenant several times without any results, unthinking and out of desperation, he slapped his superior officer in the face.

THAT got a response out of the formerly comatose Lieutenant. Callously ignoring the sleepy mumbles of fairness and peace, he shouted out thrice more at him to wake up, until finally Lieutenant Price was back among the living.

The superior officer groaned as he held his part of the face where he got slapped.

"Copper?"

Harry sighed, he couldn't expect him to remember his name out of fifty other faces. He was, after all, just a lowly private.

"It's Cooper, sir, Harry Cooper, I'm in your platoon, sir"

"Right, right, Cooper...didn't you drink that gin when I specifically ordered the whole platoon not to before the final push?"

"Err..."

"...and weren't you that man who I gave to the Provost Sergeant for sloppiness in kit inspection three times in a row?"

Oh god. Well, at least he remembers him.

"And did you just slap a superior officer?"

"...course not, sir. I mean, no sir!"

"And there are no Hun around is there?"

"...no sir."

"...Remind me to punish you later with latrine duty Private, in fact, remember to punish yourself later for hitting and lying to a superior officer, now help me up for God's sakes."

"*sigh*...yes, sir."

Even when transported to a strange, foreign land in most mysterious circumstances, some people never change.

"Private… where the bloody hell are we?"

In the ensuing chaos, where all of the soldiers had finally woken up after what many would simply refer to as the Event in the future. Officers junior and senior struggled to keep track of the men as they started to walk around in the hopes of finding friends from the regiments that may have been affected by the event while others tried to calm down those who were not taking the sudden transition to the beach well.

Sudden, bright lights tends to make soldiers a bit skittish, more so, when afterwards they wake up in an unfamiliar place.

One Lieutenant Colonel Jack MacCraw looked on, bemused by the sight of the shouting and screaming mob of men that surrounded him, jostling about the beach looking for a friendly face and more than one man here appeared to be having a minor bit of shell shock. The scene a bunch of scared and confused men running about on the sand reminded him awfully of the Gallipoli campaign

He was afraid, truly he was, for what sane man wouldn't be in that situation. But as a senior officer and a gentleman of impeccable breeding, he could simply not afford to behave like a common lout whenever the fancy takes him as it wouldn't be gentlemanly, you see. Well that, and that bit of training of keeping a stiff upper lip from Sandhurst, and that pot of strong tea he had before the final engagement in France were all that kept him from assuming a foetal position and bawling his eyes out.

Having tolerated enough of this nonsense, Colonel MacCraw took a deep breath and in one swift movement, grabbed his Webley revolver, pointed it into the air and fired until all the chambers were emptied.

His service revolver's discharge was heard over the din, and halted the movements of the men around him, and gradually, one by one soldiers started to recognize that they were in the presence of a senior officer. One Sergeant suddenly snapped to attention and saluted, after which everyone suddenly remembered their manners and followed suit.

Silence.

Having everyone's attention on oneself can be quite nerve racking.

Ah well, bugger those nerves for now, it was time to take command of this riff raff of a rabble. He saluted the men around him and stood at ease.

"Alright. Listen here, chaps, I know you are afraid about this whole malarkey, and I'm afraid I don't have any more answers to how we got here than you do...But there is one thing I can do; as the most senior officer in the vicinity, I am assuming command. I am Lieutenant Colonel MacCraw, and I promise you, we will find our way home. Is that understood!"

Cries of "Sir!" echoed around the beach. Goodness gracious that turned out better than he expected.

If the Lieutenant Colonel had known of the many years of headaches that were about to spawn out of this speech, he would have happily kept his mouth shut and callously allowed another to take command.

"Very well then."

He then picked up a particularly long piece of seawood, planted it on the ground and tied a small chequered handkerchief that he carried around in his tunic pockets.

"Officers are to collect all the other men and start digging a line of trenches and fortified positions alongside the treeline. They are also to collect all the weapons lying here on the ground and set them up appropriately. Any questions? No? Dismissed then."

When the sea of men moved again, this time with purpose, Jack MacCraw sighed as he felt around for his special flask of liquid courage. He really should have taken up retirement in Rhodesia or some other tropical British colony when he had the chance way before the War had really started.

This would be the beginning of a long and trying day. Little would this British expeditionary force know, the night that would follow would be equally long and trying.

Paul Miller idly thought about life as he lay on the ground, looking at the alien night sky above and recognizing none of the constellations above. The lack of recognisable constellations had certainly caused a feeling of unease, though that was nothing compared to the reactions to the moon.

Men fainted, cried, and prayed; for the Moon was shattered in pieces. He heard that some men had simply fled into the unknown jungle, unable to cope with the situation, and it may have been his imagination, but he thought he had heard some gunshots firing in the distance.

He pondered how he came to be here on this tropical paradise, as he last remembered lying in a foxhole with a bullet to the gut and half his face torn off by shrapnel as he was about to storm a German trench in Flanders. Then the Light came, and he awoke to find himself whole and hale. Fortunately, he did not come alone, as only other person that came with him that he recognised was an impressively moustachioed giant of a man by the name of Sergeant Bourne.

His thoughts eventually turned to his family, bringing a pang to his heart as he stared at the broken moon above as it nearly reached its zenith in the sky. What would the army tell his family back home? How would his family cope? His Da and Ma would be sad, sure, but at least they still had another son in the navy to cope with, his little sister would be devastated though, as he was the only one to play with her before he joined the army.

Funny, how loyalty to the King and the country meant so little to him now, stuck in an alien land, when he would give it all up just to see his family and his home in the countryside again.

Wherever this place was, it clearly is no where near France or Europe or bloody Timbuktu. No place on Earth has the privilege of ever having a shattered moon above at night.

He whistled a song that got stuck in his head from a long time ago, which seemed to fit the situation perfectly here, to himself at least.

It's a long way, to Tipperary,

It's a long way to go,

It's a long way, to Tipperary,

To the sweetest girl I know,

Goodbye, Piccadilly,

Farewell, Leicester Square!

It's a long long way to Tipperary,

But my heart's right there!

Suddenly, he cried out and clutched his head as it felt like it exploded in agonising pain. Through the haze of pain, he could dimly make out Sergeant Bourne's deep soothing voice among the sounds of other people's screaming. The pain seemed to increase in intensity as it felt as though someone was slowly driving a cork through his head.

After what seemed like an hour, the pain finally abated and disappeared, but he remained in a curled up position, his breath heaving and irregular as he tried to come to terms with the agony.

"There, there now." Paul opened his eyes to see the face of one Sergeant Bourne looking straight above his head.

"Blimey Sarge, it felt like someone was taking a pickaxe to me head"

Sergeant Bourne didn't answer, and continued staring at the space above his head.

"Sarge?" Confusion and worry began to well up in his gut as the seconds ticked by.

Sergeant Bourne raised his great big hand which slowly reached up to the top of his head.

"Sarge? Sergeant Bourne? What are you doin-AH!" Paul cried out loud as the Sergeant's hand pulled at SOMETHING to his head. The familiar feeling of impending bad news began to build up again in his gut.

"Sarge? What's happening to me? What's going on Sarge?" he pleaded as he grasped the top of his in panic with both of his hands, immediately coming in contact with something soft and hairy and something that definitely didn't belong there.

Mirror! He needed a mirror! He scrambled for his bag, throwing everything out in the trench as he tried to find his shaving kit.

There!

He fumbled about the kit box, trying to open the lid with the mirror in it. With a click, the kit box lid opened up and Paul squinted hard into the lid where a small mirror should be., angling it as to use as much moonlight as possible.

What he saw turned his blood into ice.

The top part of his silhouette in the mirror, where there should be only flat hair and a round head, showed two pointy mounds.

He heard someone screaming, before realising it was himself.

SMACK!

Paul stumbled as he tried to recover from a backhanded slap from Sergeant Bourne.

"I need you stay calm now Private. I know this must be quite upsetting for yo-"

"Upset? Upset?! I-"

"Don't interrupt me Private." warned the Sergeant. "And mind your language" He added on absentmindedly. Paul resisted the urge to flip him the bird. Sergeant always had a weird obsession and vendetta against what he considered to be foul language.

"As I was saying, I need you and everybody here to stay calm. In the morning, I'll have you lot sent off to see the medic and see if we can't...put you lot back normal again."

Eh? You lot?

Paul looked around the trench illuminated by the pale moonlight, and with great shock, found at least half the men sharing the trench with him had at least one animal feature and their faces still grimacing in pain from the recent transformation.

What on Ear-

AAWWOOOO!

Everyone froze.

AAWWOOOO!

Oh for the love of God, what now?

Suddenly, everyone could hear gunshots firing from the other side of the trenches.

"To battle stations! Fix bayonets! Eyes forward! Prepare to receive enemy attack! You know the drill lads!"

Curses and swearing flew around the tight trench as the soldiers went into a mad dash to get themselves into firing positions.

Paul fumbled his fingers around his sword bayonet as he tried to attach it to his rifle as quickly as possible before levelling it to his shoulders, aiming it into the dark night. Dark shapes and masses moved about in the moonlight, and what terrified Paul were the shining, red eyes that glinted menacingly in the dark shadows. Childhood stories of man eating monsters prowling the English countryside suddenly flashed into his mind, before he suppressed that thought in favour of zeroing in on his target.

So it turned out that while the place might look like a Polynesian paradise, it was also filled to the brim with glowing, red eyed monsters with a particular taste for Englishmen.

When packs of the largest wolves Paul had ever seen came into view, a few soldiers opened fire at them hoping to scare the beasts off.

Rather, instead of being intimidated by loud noises and dying comrades, the wolves simply charged en masse.

Machine guns and rifle fire destroyed much of the first wave. But then it seemed when one wolf died, two more would take its place.

"Damn it Sergeant! How many wolves can there bloody be in this forest?!"

"You keep firing Private Miller, keep firing, and don't you waste a shot. Make every shot count!" Boomed Sergeant Bourne. "And mind your language!" He added before he shattered the skull of a particularly large and sneaky wolf with a powerful buttstroke.

Grumbling and rolling his eyes at the eternally unruffled Sergeant, Paul cycled through another round.

Aim.

Fire.

Hit.

Cycle.

Aim.

Fire.

Hit.

These wolves, big though they may be, seemed to go down in one shot to the upper torso or head. But they were fast, so much so that a few would slip through the veil of bullets and reach the trenches, and those claws were really not for show as a few unfortunate souls found out.

Cycle.

Aim.

Wait, bollocks, THRUST! TWIST! PULL!

Phew, what a time for them sword bayonets to become useful again.

Paul refocused on the task at hand, reloading and firing, again and again.

This cycle continued on until the first rays of dawn broke over the battlefield, illuminating the last of the dead wolf carcasses, which were ominously fading slowly into the air.

Not one thought about his recent transformation entered his tired and scared mind.

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As chaos of the battle reigned, no one noticed the moon flashing red for a second, nor did they notice a set of dark eyes looking down at the British positions in dark amusement and curiosity.

※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

So what do you guys think of it so far?


	2. Chapter 2

Beta'd by D. Fender and Gladsome

RWBY belongs to Rooster Teeth and Monty Oum.

 **CHAPTER 2**

The unfortunate colonel, now promoted to general at the behest of those snot nosed whelps of officers, worked through the terrible knot in his temple. Terrible though the pain may be, he knew better than to go to the "Good Doctor" Monroe. Out of all the possible doctors and medics from the Front to come with him on that fateful day, it simply had to be him and his team. He shuddered at the thought of being in the same room as the Doctor, as those 50 odd unfortunate souls injured from last week's fracas with the local wildlife would soon find out why they should feel nothing but envy for the rest of the army and the 24 fatalities.

He was getting too old for this. Magical, world transporting, godly Lights? Animal appendages? Dangerous tropical paradise reminding him terribly of the his times as a young lieutenant in the Malay posting? With those sinful, exotic women, and excellent food, and gambling dens. Ahh the good times.

Except there were no good times here, just as there were no exotic wenches, cuisine, or gambling establishments. Just him and 40,000 other whiny Tommy Atkins; absolutely no redeeming features at all.

Speaking of animal appendages, there were increasing number of men dying from severe blood loss as they tried to amputate their animal parts in a desperate attempt to revert back to their normal selves. Well, he supposed the first order of business would be to write out an order to all afflicted soldiers to wait for the Doctor and his team to have a look at them all...and to stop cutting off their animal appendages. Along with the injured men from last week, that should keep Doctor Monroe busy.

An explosive sigh escaped through his mouth as the weight of the whole damned situation bored down on him. The Army needed re-organising, the resources check book needed balancing, new fortifications needed building and so on and so forth.

Although considering they mysteriously found 40 Mk 4 tanks, 1 of those dirty Boche tanks, 30 tiny Frenchie tanks, aircraft, 100 horses, heavy artillery pieces and shells all in a large jungle clearing 100 yards from their fortifications, they were probably not going wanting for munitions, supplies, and machinery for a long time.

Although seriously, why anyone wanted this thankless desk job back home was beyond him. Hours of 'General this' and 'General that' were slowly driving him closer to the brink of madness than the Western Front ever did.

At this rate, he will probably even miss that mutton-headed fool Meltchett, and his pet Darling too.

※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※

Lieutenant Price had two choices in terms of direction for his newly created platoon. He could go further inland into the jungles where hungry beasts lay, or he could go west along the coastline as another platoon went east. Deciding to avoid the high probability of horrible death, the platoon moved westwards along the coastline and on to the glory of establishing first contact with the local aliens, like Livingstone in the Dark Continent before him.

But just because one made a sensible decision doesn't mean one will be rewarded for it.

Oh course not.

That would simply be too easy, and thus would be an insult to the great, British explorers who went through great hardships such as Scott of Antarctica and Captain Cook.

Lieutenant Price learned this the hard way, a day later, when his platoon encountered a terrifying beast. It was huge, with great tusks coming out of its mighty jaws, savage long claws to complement it and great powerful muscles to use them. Smaller abominations that resembled wolves and boars came out of the trees to put themselves between the platoon and the big creature.

Lieutenant Price never once complained about his gun being too small, but in the face of this large enemy, he doubted he would have felt safe with even an eight bore elephant gun in his hands.

The Beast took a step forwards, revelling in the stench of fear from the search party as it took long sniffs in the air. Lieutenant Price was aware of how sweaty his hand was at that moment as he adjusted his grip on his rifle, picking his target in front of him. One of the panic stricken soldiers fired his rifle, bullet smashing into the armour of the beast with no visible effect other than seriously annoying it.

Shrugging off the rifle shot, it roared a signal for the its minions to attack the platoon.

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, OPEN FIRE OPEN FIRE!"

Every member of the platoon was spurred into action and followed his command. Everyone from the Lewis gunner to the designated sniper emptied their magazine into the foul beasts. The wolves died quickly enough, but the boars staggered onwards and had to be speared by bayonets to stop them in their tracks. Lieutenant Price was vaguely aware of several of his men being gored by a boar before Private Cooper plunged his bayonet into the last demonic pig's side.

The Beast, caught by surprise by the loud noises and the sight of its brethren being so quickly annihilated, took a step back as the entire platoon rapidly reloaded their weapons and aimed their sights on the last surviving target.

Perhaps, it knew the jig was up.

Perhaps, the Beast felt it should die with honour that day, with its front facing towards the enemy, because instead of continuing its withdrawal, the Beast roared defiantly at the odd humans and charged at the entire platoon, who in turn obliged the Beast several hundred rounds of .303 bullets fired into any area not covered in bony plates. After emptying their magazines, everyone stopped to stare at the beast, its massive body now prone.

"Cor blimey, reckon dat fing is dead Sarge?"

With a mighty roar, the beast came back from the dead, looking for revenge on the puny humans

Being first to react, Lieutenant Price ran forwards and emptied his revolver into the eyes of the monster, bullets piercing the skull and finally ending the whole skirmish.

He dropped to his knees emotionally and physically exhausted, as he saw the nightmarish bodies break apart and fade away in the air, leaving no evidence behind of their existence, other than fear and a shocked silence.

"Umm sir"

"What now, Cooper, can't you see I'm busy resting here?"

"Sir, behind the trees sir..."

Price hissed out a heavy sigh and turned to see what the devil the private was harking on about.

And then he paused.

Beyond the foliage was the most welcome sight he saw since the start of this whole mess.

People.


	3. Chapter 3

There were so many people it was like they just blossomed out of the jungle. Upon closer inspection some were dark skinned, not unlike a Hindoo or one of those Maori chaps from New Zealand, whilst many others had the pale complexion of those of the Orient, and they all wore clothes that would all be considered indecent back in jolly ol' Blighty. Most importantly, most, if not all, of these natives had animal features.

They must have been attracted to the noises of the skirmish they just fought.

At the sight of these alien looking locals, his heart soared as he imagined the history books that would be dedicated to the brave and adventurous Lieutenant Pri-

Suddenly, all the locals pulled out bows and spears seemingly out of nowhere, all pointing them in their general direction.

Ah bugger, he thought as the larger looking natives started shouting in what was presumably an aggressive manner, there goes my place in history. Two of his men were dead, and three were severely injured, which left about 45 men to deal with what seemed like several hundred natives of slightly volatile temperament.

"What are our orders, Sir?" Asked the platoon Sergeant, rifle at the ready and pointing it at the nearest target. Price turned to look at his men and saw most were a hair trigger away from blasting the natives away, but they were at a serious numerical disadvantage, not to mention the whole point of their mission was to ingratiate themselves into the local populace, not kill them

"Do nothing and let me sort this out. Tell everyone to stand down."

One of the men had the bright idea of unfurling a Union Jack and used his rifle as a flagpole, as to show these natives their nation of allegiance, and if he were a more sentimental person he would have probably appreciated the gesture. Right now though, he sneered at the dimwitted Private; it's not as if these savages would even know what Britain is in the first place, though the flag did garnish more than a few curious looks.

Price turned back to the jungle people and raised his arms up slowly as a calming gesture to the natives, not wanting to catch a sudden case of death by heathens. Captain Cook may have been his hero, but under no circumstances did he want to share the same fate as the unfortunate man (that fate being killed and eaten by Polynesian cannibals).

"Hello the-"

"Who are you and what are you doing on our lands?" Said a commanding voice, coming from a particularly formidable looking gentleman. The man was well built, with paler features than the rest of the natives and clothes of better quality and design. Clearly he must be the chief of these people, Price thought, as his mere voice was enough to cow the more rowdier natives into silence.

Well, he might not be friendly, but at least he spoke English.

One thing was for certain though: they couldn't afford to offend these natives.

He straightened his back, squared his shoulder and met the tiger eared man's gaze, "Well, allow me to introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Price and I am in charge of this platoon. A fortnight ago our expeditionary force became stranded on this land, so our commanding officer ordered us to search for civilization. Please accept this gift as a token of friendship between our people."

At this moment, Price began to sweat, for he hadn't actually brought a gift, so with the quickness of wit bestowed by sheer desperation, he pulled out his service revolver with its holster and handed it grip first to the irritable looking tiger man, fully aware of the many weapons pointed in his general direction.

Intrigued, the large man took out the gun out of its holster, clearly fascinated by the firearm and its design. Well, to be fair to their leader, and judging by the primitive look of the killing implements the natives possessed, a gun would seem like sorcery of the greatest kind. Price tried not to think of the many different rules he was breaking by gifting his trusty Webley to the savage leader and wondered if it would warrant a demotion or a disciplinary hearing.

Ah the things he sacrificed for the greater good.

Satisfied, the gruff man put the gun carefully back into its holster and gave it to one of his fellows. "I am Bagheera, former Governor of Kuo Koana. Please accept my offer of hospitality for tonight, Lieutenant Price, and we will talk more tomorrow morning." And with that, he turned and walked away, not before shouting out orders to his people to welcome the platoon in their foreign language. Price breathed out a sigh of relief at the fact that, somehow, he wasn't killed and eaten by savages during the exchange.

※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※

The newly promoted Colonel of the Royal Army Service Corps, or rather an amalgamation of members from various branches of the Royal Army Service Corps, was at his wits end. The seemingly endless stream of requests, problems that "required his utmost attention immediately," and whatnot, did not bode well for his prospects of a mentally healthy future. It would have been a lot worse if the few members of the Royal Army Service Corps hadn't turned up as well as they were already stretched thin. He resisted the urge to take a sip out of his flask of liquid courage, knowing full well it would never simply end at 'just a tipple', and decided to concentrate his efforts on the most immediate problems.

The first and immediate problem was a fresh water supply. His experiences in India as a young officer taught him that clean boiled water was vital if one wanted to stay clear of the Delhi Belly. For now, the army were relying on the coconuts found abundantly all over, however, Doctor Monroe ever-so-helpfully pointed out in that infuriating tone of his, that drinking too much coconut water could result in diarrhoea and other unpleasant conditions. He just hoped that somewhere in this green hell, the scouts from the Royal Engineers will have found a river or a fresh water source of some kind, otherwise, they were all facing a rather disgusting predicament. For now, there was nothing he could do but sip the coconut water whilst he waited for news on that front.

The second problem was that the bastard of the deity who brought the BEF to their current positions didn't deign it worthy of their effort to bring more food rations or more qualified chefs. Wild birds, boars, large lizards and just about anything that moved were shot on sight in the surrounding area, which resulted in there being just about enough food to feed the army for now, if one ignored the rather meagre portions.

It was rather fortunate the average Tommy over the years had developed the ability to cook and fend for themselves on the frontline. With permission from the General, hunting parties from each platoon were formed and experienced fishermen or people with experiences with seacraft came together to build fishing rafts, nets and crab traps. It had the effect of somewhat taking the pressure off the small amount of chefs who had the responsibilities of keeping forty odd thousand troops fed without any cooking equipment. He prayed that the precarious situation would improve further, lest they all starve to death on this alien land.

Now, that brought him to the third most urgent problem. Weapons and ammunition. There were plenty of machine guns, there were plenty of rifles, and a considerable amount of mortars but they had an unknown amount of ammunition that came with them. He would need to send someone to count all the ammunition they had in stock so that he could ration it accordingly since there was very little he could actually do about increasing the amount of available ammunition, with the exception of a the miraculous possibility that, somewhere, there was a friendly civilisation nearby that had discovered gunpowder.

Last, but not the least of his problems was fortifying their position. Though not directly his responsibility, it still fell to him to provide material and logistical support to the Royal Engineers. Right now, the army had dug up an enclosed oval shaped trench three miles wide and thirty yards side to side in the ground with sand walls. Compared to the trenches they left behind in Europe, it was a very crude and basic trench, the likes of which reminded him very much of the early days of the War, but it was the best that could be done on such short notice. The Royal Engineers were currently drawing up plans for the new fortifications and were having a tiff over the suitable location, but they all assured him that, for now, the trenches were an effective stop gap until they could get the new fort up and running.

At least there was a silver lining in all of this madness: the soldiers turned half animals had stopped chopping off their appendages after a couple of dozen had died from blood loss. The animal soldiers (someone really must come up with a name for them) were understandably unhappy about their situation, but recently he heard some interesting side effects of the transformation which may make up for this whole mess.

However, his musings were cut short as a sentry man poked his head inside the makeshift office

."Lieutenant Bosley here to see you, sir"

"Ahh excellent, send him in will you?" And it was indeed excellent. He remembered Bosley from an informal get together of officers in Paris back during the War. Good man, good officer too. It was great fortune that Bosley somehow managed to get swept into this malarkey as well, from a certain (his) point of view.

Not a moment later, a tallish man walked in and saluted, and here the Colonel felt a little guilt for what he was about to do to the young man before he ruthlessly crushed his hesitation for the (his) greater good.

"At ease, Lieutenant. There's a good fellow. I would offer you a stiff drink but I'm afraid all that's available are some coconut water. I thought I was rid of the damn stuff for good when I left India, but beggars can't be choosers I suppose... Now, Bosley old boy, I'm going to offer you a fantastic promotion."

Bosley blinked at the unexpected announcement and looked slightly cautious and suspicious at his superior officer. "Really sir? Well thank you, sir."

"Yes yes, I know, I know, the Major of the Royal Army Service Corps position will have a competent man at the helm won't it?"

"Wait wha-I mean, excuse me sir?"

"You heard me, Bosley, I said you're now effectively promoted to Major. I want a full report on our supplies situation by Friday. I want to know how much ammunition and weapons are at our disposal and exactly how many men have landed here with us. Think you got it Bosley?"

"B-b-but I can't possibly do all that by Friday Sir! It'll at the very least take me say a fortnight! For God's sakes, will I at least have some assistants sir?"

"Yes yes Bosley, I'll even be generous to you here-"

"generous my bloody posterior"

"What's that you say Bosley?"

"Nothing sir, please carry on."

The Colonel squinted at the slightly fidgety man before him as he thought about grilling him for the lack of respect, but in the end, he decided to just let it go. For now. "Hmm well yes, as I was saying, I'll even be generous and provide you with a team to assist you. What say you Bosley old boy?"

"...very well, sir. B-b-but I-"

"Excellent! Carry on now Bosley, you'll meet your men in about an hour outside the tent where you will start your assignment."

"S-s-sir, I-I must protes-"

"Thank you Bosley, you're dismissed now. Do you mind sending the next chap in on the way out?"

Seeing the hopes, dreams and general optimism of his underlings being crushed by the load of responsibilities that he fobbed off on them was what made most of his days bearable. As he looked at the receding back of his underling, he thought of having just a tipple of liquid courage. The Good Lord knows that he could use a stiff drink; being in charge of Logistics and running the army was thirsty work.

Before his hands could sneak their way into his pockets, another man walked inside the tent and snapped off a salute. Ah, bugger. Looks like the drink will have to wait after all.

Duty before pleasure and all that.

※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※

Resisting the urge to cry, Second Lieutenant James Bosley saluted and stiffly marched out of the General's quarters. He had no delusions as to the trials that awaited him: the long hours of writing, counting, writing, organising, writing and other dull general elements of bureaucracy.

He left the life of a clerk in some dull governmental department for fishing quotas and whatnot for a life of excitement and adventure in the British Army, and there he made friends that were not stuffy old windbags but chaps of a similar age!

Though he dare say that the excitement and adventure was far more than he bargained for, the friendships and camaraderie that he experienced throughout the war would be treasured in his memories for the rest of his life. To return to that life of soul crushing paperwork made him feel more than a little washed out, even if he was still in the army.

Make no mistake, he knew how important this job was right now, he simply wished the General's 'generosity' on someone else. At least he could take solace in the fact that he won't be doing it alone, and at least he wasn't in charge of the Royal Engineers. Whoever got that job was royally shafted.

As he exited the tent, he told the man outside that he may enter and sat down on a piece of driftwood as he started the hour long wait for his team.

It was not his day.

※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※—※

A crack shot with a rifle from his days of hunting wild rabbits with his father before the War, Lance Corporal James "Smithy" Smith naturally volunteered to go with the hunting party and get away from the gloominess that had seemed to descend on the entire army. At that time, he thought it was at least better than staying at camp starving and bored. He was wrong. Very wrong indeed.

Right from the start, it was clear the hunting expedition was full dangers, as the biggest threat to man in the jungle was not the demon wolves and the occasional demon bear that plagued them since that first night, but the wildlife around them. Here it seemed that behind every blade of grass was an animal that wanted to kill you, if that was the blade of grass didn't get you first.

Examples of violent encounters included mockingbirds that swooped down from high above to try to scratch and gouge their eyes out; vicious, screeching koalas that liked to drop down from the trees, intent on tearing people's faces off; and a particularly large and predatory venus fly trap that possessing vines waving around like tentacles. The deeper they went into the jungle, the more Smithy newfound loathing of nature grew.

Luckily, most of these vicious creatures were brought down or driven away by rifle fire, with the notable exception of mosquitoes that seemed to make it their life's mission to bring itchy misery where ever they went. Additionally, Smithy would take particular pleasure in roasting the dead koalas, though judging by their viciousness, they were probably rabid and inedible. He'd probably have to ask an Aussie about koalas once he returned from the green hell.

The worst incident, and the only one with fatalities, was when the hunting party lost three members to a particularly bloodthirsty bunny. His dreams would forever be haunted by the sight of his platoon mates trying to stem the crimson flood that was gushing from their throats, and a white bunny drenched in that same red and possessing the eyes of a demon. The party had to make a hasty retreat from the beast to a safe distance, leaving the corpses of their friends behind to the bloodthirsty demon.

This was the straw that broke the camel's back. Demonic attacks, bird attacks, koala attacks now a blood thirsty bunny attack. Smithy had had enough.

In a fit of silliness or perhaps hysteria, Smithy pulled out his hand grenade, chucked it in the direction of the monster and charged in with his bayonet after he heard the sound of explosion. His hunting mates ran after him in an effort to save him from imminent doom, but stopped at the sight of Smithy crying and laughing hysterically as he repeatedly skewered a small white furry body near the site of explosion.

One of the braver ones had to drag him away from the dead bunny so they could slap some sensibilities back into him, bury the dead and continue with the mission. Smithy was not afraid to admit that seeing his colleagues torn up in front of him by a bunny, of all things, had left him reeling for a while.

After three hours of trekking through the humidity that was so thick you could cut it with a knife, tired and demoralised, the party stumbled upon the scenic view of a shallow, swampy lake and a deer herd drinking from it approximately 200 yards away. It was one of the most beautiful sights Smithy had seen in his short 21 years of life. With fourteen out of the original seventeen still surviving, there should still be more than enough firepower to bring down at least a dozen of the beasts.

The herd, ignorant of the fate that was about to befall them, drank from the waters without a care in the world. The fawns were mucking around the shallower end of the lake, leaping gaily and freely around each other under the supervision of their parents with sunshine, rainbows, and happiness everywhere. Such a scene would have perhaps inspired warm mushy feelings in an ordinary person but for the members of the BEF, it merely inspired licked chops and anticipation of an easy and delicious dinner.

Smithy took a deep breath before he zeroed in his sights on what seemed to be a large stag as it drank from a particularly swampy water. His hunting colleagues, spread out and hiding behind the foliage, were likewise doing the same as they ever so carefully made sure that their shot does not miss their targets. He lay prone on the ground with his trigger finger itching, waiting for the signal from his squad leader to start shooting.

As the deers continued to lazily slurp the stagnant water without a care in the world, a loud but horribly inaccurate bird call rang out loud, which led to the entire hunting party to breathe out and pull the trigger before the deer could react.

Cracks of rifle fire thundered throughout the swamp with .303 rounds meeting flesh and muscle. Most shots met their marks but about half were instantly fatal. The once playful fawns cried out in fear and for their mothers as many of their playmates suddenly dropped with a splash into the water whilst the adults that survived a gunshot bellowed out in pain. Smithy's target jumped as the bullet smashed into its shoulders, roaring out in agony and fear as it tried to turn around to run away from the noises. Not waiting a second longer, Smithy, in one swift, practised movement ejected, reloaded and fired another round into his target's ribs, dropping it to the ground.

He spent the next minute emptying his rifle time and time again into the masses of deer meat, rapidly cycling each round as he practised so many years ago in a training field far far away. Soon enough the most of the herd ran from the lake and away from their invisible predators to live another day, leaving the corpses of the unlucky ones behind.

Smithy stood up and took in a deep breath of the lake. After walking through the green hell, it was cathartic to finally just kill something of nature, especially if it couldn't fight back. Looking at the carnage on the opposite lakeside, a thought suddenly struck him. If each deer was about 440 pounds, then that meant...

"Oi lads, how're we supposed to carry them back to camp?"

His mates looked at him, eyes widening in realisation that perhaps they did not think the plan through.

Smithy smacked his forehead in frustration at their collective lack of foresight and planning.

They were going to have to drag the deer carcasses back whilst braving the vicious clawing mockingbirds and savage koalas again. He should have tried his hand at fishing. No way was he going through the Green Hell again.

"Oh soddin hell, those things must weigh a bloody tonne!"

It was not his day...


End file.
